Distraction from...
The paper has no purpose
With pen against the page against my throat.
Words are still in this dammed up river,
Choke you fool on hope.
An indent, a crater from the pressing tip.
Protrudes to the backsides, right side *flip*
A fatal flaw my focus fades,
To fingers on the bump.
Intent lost to simple pleasures,
Self made Braille impresses the senses.
Or sense, one sense caters to me
As I press it back into the page...
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